Page 1 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Zoey

I rush out Slice of Heaven’s back door as fast as the bulging trash bag allows, grimacing every time it bumps into my shins.

But I’m not fast enough.

The image of my mother’s body sprawled on the bricks, blood pooling beneath her head like a grisly halo, assaults me as soon as I’m clear of the door.

God, I hate being out here.

It’s been three years, and I still can’t shake the memory of coming out here that fateful night and finding my mother lying in the alley. She was in the hospital for almost a month before she succumbed to her injuries.

It’s not like in the movies.

All the time I spent sobbing at her bedside, she never once opened her eyes. There was no final goodbye. No last minute, inspiring piece of life advice to carry me through the rest of my days.

My last memory is that of a frail, disintegrated figure violated with plastic tubes. I can still smell that hospital room sometimes. Harsh disinfectant battling the sinister odor of death.

The cops called it a ‘mugging gone wrong.’

Nothing’s been right since.

The dumpster lid crashes closed, the sound echoing back from the narrow alley behind the back of the diner that leads to the delivery service road.

That’s where it happened.

Every time I come out here, I tell myself not to look.

Every time, I do.

My heart misses a beat when I spot the SUV parked in the alley. Matte black, with tinted windows so dark they look painted on. A breeze rifles through my hair, carrying the scent of cigarettes and weed over to me.

Just some guys getting high in an alley.

But I can’t shake the feeling of fingers crawling up my spine.

I shouldn’t even be taking out the trash. It’s Ricky’s job, but he’s been AWOL for nearly two weeks. A normal sibling would have called the cops, filed a missing persons or something.

But this is perfectly on brand for my brother.

He shows up with a stack of money and his charming smile when things are good, then ghosts the second shit gets real.

Says he’s working, but I’ve never heard of a job where you’re paid to hang out around blackjack tables with women who are only business associates by the loosest definition of the word.

He’s been a flake ever since Mom passed, and while I know things have been rough, if I have to adult, so does he.

I love my brother, but fuck it if he’s not the reason I have trust issues. We’re supposed to be running this diner together, but half the time he’s off doing his own thing, leaving me to do all the work and wonder whether he’s still alive.

Then there’s all the missing money. It’s happened less often the past couple of months, but before that, Ricky was stealing regularly from the diner.

As I turn to go back inside, the driver inside the mystery SUV switches on the headlamps. The beam picks me out like a spotlight on stage.

“The fuck?” I squint, my hand flying up to shield my eyes.

The high beams blink twice before going dark.

Yeah, like I’m falling for that. The Universe will have to find a better way of luring me down that alley.

I hurry inside the diner, slam the door closed, and slide back all three deadbolts.

They don’t seem enough when it’s almost midnight and I’m the last one left in the diner.

I was waiting for Mr. Wells to come by for his coffee and pie at eleven thirty, but it looks like the old man stiffed me tonight.

Still have to cash up, but there’s no fucking way I’m hanging around here any longer.

I turn, headed for the front of the diner, when the jolly tinkle of the bell rings out.

Thank God. At least I won’t be alone anymore.

“Running late tonight, Mr. Wells,” I call out as I round the corner. “Lucky for you, I still have a slice of?—”

“Slice of Heaven?” asks the wiry man with pockmarked skin and tattoos who just came through the door. “Yeah…I could do with some of that.”

His dark eyes lock on mine, flat and cold, like they’ve already stripped me naked and still feel like stripping me down some more. With a hunting knife.

He calmly reaches behind him, and pushes closed the door. Quietly. Not like he wants to reduce noise, but like he knows he doesn’t have to be loud to scare me. And then he flips over the OPEN sign.

His scent hits my nose.

Cigarettes, weed.

The same smell that wafted to me from the alley where the SUV was parked.

My stomach drops. He’d been watching me take out the trash, sizing up his prey. How the hell he got to the front of the diner so fast is anyone’s guess. Unless…

There are two of them. One in the back, one in the front.

“Get out, or I’m calling the cops,” I say in a shaky voice.

My threat doesn’t faze him in the slightest. “Where’s Ricky?”

I can’t help but snort.

One of Ricky’s friends? I should’ve known.

I’ve seen my brother around this type more than once. Gangbanger wannabes driving stolen cars and smoking weed like they’re auditioning for the next season of Narcos.

“Probably at one of the handful of casinos that don’t have him on their watch list. Should’ve checked the nearest blackjack table before you came here to terrorize me. Would’ve saved you a lot of time.”

The gangbanger’s smile hardens into something colder, eyes slitting.

“We had an appointment.”

“Yeah, well, you of all people should know Ricky’s not great at showing up.”

But as I say it, my fried brain is reworking its original hypothesis. Ricky’s friends smile a lot, but not like this guy. They smile because they’re high. This guy smiles like he’s going to enjoy what’s coming next…and I’m not.

“You should go,” I croak. “Like now.”

He ignores that. “Think I like being stood up, Zoey?”

My heart thumps as hard as he knocked on the door. I bleat out a panicked, “How d’you know my name?”

Light glints off his teeth as he grins and taps his heart. Instinctively, I reach up to brush the name badge attached to my shirt’s breast pocket.

“Oh. Right.”

He shrugs, eyes roving my body again. “Ricky mentioned you a couple times. Never said what a juicy culo ? 1 you had.”

“Probably because he’s my brother, and that’s disgusting.”

“Me and my sister used to be close.” He shrugs. “Way Ricky talks about you, thought you two were keeping it in the family.”

“Um, no,” I mutter, trying not to gag at the thought. “Now Ricky isn’t here, and it’s late. So how about you get the fuck out of my diner before I call the cops?”

He ambles deeper into the diner. I never thought of how small the seating area was before, especially with the booths blocking all but a narrow walkway between the front door and back of house.

There’s a twitch of his mouth when he sends a smooth, sweeping gaze over my home before giving me the same casual scan.

My skinny jeans suddenly feel even tighter than normal. My pastel blue polo shirt tucked in too tight. It really helps with tips, but man do I regret my life choices right now.

“Where’s el rata hiding, huh?”

He might be ex-military, with his scuffed army-issue boots, fade-in buzz cut, and clean-shaven face…but not with that gun shoved in the front of his jeans, right out in the open.

If Ricky’s friends carry guns, then they’re a hell of a lot more discrete about it than this guy.

When he sees me looking at it, he lays his hand on the grip.

He takes another slow step forward, like I’m a deer he doesn’t want to spook before putting a bullet through my head and tying me down on the hood of his truck. Despite my rising panic, I inch towards the open-plan kitchen, trying to keep the same distance between us.

No time for a phone call. I’ll have to find something to defend myself with.

Knives, forks, cast-iron pans—they’re all in the kitchen. I’m not even sure if the pan can deflect a bullet, but I’m not going down without a fight.

I swear, if I die in this diner with my hair still reeking of fryer oil, I’m leaving a one-star Yelp review for my life. As it stands, I’m definitely not rating it higher than three.

Buzzcut watches me, nonplussed, as I slowly creep towards the kitchen.

“Ricky owes me money,” he says, enunciating each vowel. To my feverish, panicked mind, it sounds like a knife tapping against glass.

“Yeah, uh, paying for things is even rarer for Ricky than showing up.” My voice is all over the place as I try—but fail—to keep my shit together.

“So I’m guessing you’re one of his bookies, then?

You know, I told him not to gamble. Or at least to stick to the stuff he’s good at.

Why the hell he kept going back to the craps table is anyone’s?—“

Buzzcut slips the gun out of his pants and points it at me. “Stop.”

I put my hands up. “Talking or moving?” I ask, not doing either.

His teeth glint as he snarls, “Both.” Judging from the way his hand tightens around his gun’s grip, he doesn’t have a sense of humor.

I reluctantly halt, hands still in the air, but there’s no way I’m shutting up. “Relax, okay? Just tell me how much he owes you, and I’ll see what I can?—“

“Yeah?” Buzzcut cocks an eyebrow, glancing around the diner with an incredulous twist to his mouth. “You got a hundred grand stashed away in here?”

“Wh…?” I scoff. “A hundred grand ? He owes you a hundred grand?”

Buzzcut beckons with the gun, his voice dropping to a rasp. “Closer, chica . Don’t make me shout.”

Jesus. I’m so fucked.

I shake my head. “I’m good over here, thanks. And I take offense that you think I don’t have that kind of money.”

Okay, new plan.

There’s cash in the safe. Not enough to cover Ricky’s debt—a hundred fucking grand?—but hopefully enough to convince this asshole not to shoot me.

Buzzcut sweeps his gun toward the office’s door. “You got it? Show me, mamacita .”

“Okay, okay!”

He comes up right behind me as I head for the door, the air filling with the scent of cigarettes, weed, and Ax body spray.

I take my keys out of my apron, nearly dropping them when I aim for the door lock.

As I fumble with the keys, some sliver of survival instinct kicks in. I slip the largest keys of the bunch between my fingers, and curl my hand into a fist.